City of Angels (The Trials of Kit Shannon #1)

by James Scott Bell

  Kit nodded solemnly.

  "Now come on," said McGinty. "Let's go bounce your client."

  Chapter Fifteen

  HEATH SLOATE WALKED SLOWLY, almost automatically, into his Adams Street home. Set well back from the street, it was surrounded by large date and fan palms, grevillas, and magnolias, as well as orange and pepper trees casting their shade upon a parklike lawn of brilliant green.

  This neighborhood had been called the most beautiful in the entire city. To Sloate, that mattered not at all, especially now.

  Inside, the large Victorian home was dark. The heavy brocade drapes were drawn as always. Sloate rarely opened them, even when guests came—which wasn't often. He preferred his isolation. No one had ever lived in this home but he.

  Walking straight through toward the kitchen, then out the kitchen door toward the lush backyard, Sloate did not notice any of the beauty of the roses, jasmine, and heliotrope covering the porch. Instead, his eyes immediately fixated on a hand ax lying in its spot by the back steps.

  He picked up the ax, intending to chop some kindling for a fire, then stopped. He looked at the ax and, with a sudden, blinding flash of white inside his head, he gave a primal, guttural cry and lashed out with it. The blade embedded itself deeply into an ornate wooden post.

  His rage was both shocking and familiar to him. He hadn't felt such hatred for a woman since just after the Civil War. That was when he'd learned about the twisted heart and soul of women, and why he would never allow them power over him again.

  Margaret Chenson was a southern belle, raised in the embrace of pre-war Charleston. She had beauty, yes, and also all the social graces. She was ripe for marrying, just seventeen to his twenty-five. He had selected her from a set of prospects for which he'd drawn up columns listing attributes both positive and negative. Of all of them, Margaret had the most to offer an ambitious young lawyer who would reach the top of his profession. Her beauty unequalled, her intellect surprisingly keen for a woman, Margaret Chenson stood out as a rose among lesser flowers. And, he finally had to admit to himself, despite all his efforts to remain cool toward the transaction of matrimony, he had fallen in love.

  He had followed the laws of southern courtship, even in the swirl of Reconstruction, and had invested nearly a year in the often uncomfortable rituals before he actually proposed. Despite all that time, he was somewhat surprised when she said yes. He knew he was not a woman's ideal in looks, but he was sensible and would provide security. Margaret, who held a passionate and romantic streak that Sloate could not fully understand, seemed to accept the sober reasons without qualm.

  That was before she met the Union soldier, part of the post-war security forces. It had all happened in secret. Sloate was too stupid or blind to see the signs. But one month before the wedding Margaret ran away with the soldier—away from her family, her roots, and Heath Sloate. In her note she confessed she had never loved him and that she had no choice but to follow her heart.

  Her family had been horrified—completely devastated to learn of their daughter's treasonous action. They had disowned her and settled a huge sum of money on Sloate, encouraging him to go quietly and make little noise about this in Charleston's most fickle society.

  Sloate was not mollified and allowed the full intensity of his hatred to burn all emotion to the ground, like Atlanta under Sherman's torch. The money, while appealing, would not quench his rage. She had made him the laughingstock of the town. Despite his willingness to keep the matter hushed, most everyone seemed to know the details practically overnight.

  "That's Heath Sloate," they said in conspiratorial whispers. "He's the one Margaret Chenson threw over for a Yankee!"

  Their disdain was obvious. How could any woman prefer the enemy to one of their own people—unless, of course, something was horribly wrong with the man in question. It didn't take long for that assumption to circulate, and before he knew it, people were avoiding him altogether.

  Sloate had been livid. That this mere slip of a woman should have the power to put suspicion and doubt on his shoulders was more than he could accept. The thought only gave fuel to the conflagration in his soul. It was then he made an unalterable decision. Never again would he allow a woman to deceive him. Never would he give his heart away. Never would he let a woman get the better of him.

  But now one had.

  Kit Shannon! She was a curse, a cancer. It wasn't enough that she should deny him her companionship when to do so made perfect business sense. No, she had come in under his very nose and humiliated him in front of Finlay Wilson, a valued client, and most of the police squad as well.

  Sloate removed the ax from the wood and hefted it to his shoulder. So she was going on with this pretense of practicing law, was she? Well, now was the time to cut her off. Like a sapling before its roots became strong.

  ———

  Earl Rogers howled with laughter. It was the last thing Kit expected. She thought Rogers would be outraged that she had gone behind his back to visit a penniless client. But there he was, filling his office with such a guffaw that Bill Jory and Rose, the office secretary, rushed in to see if anything was wrong.

  "She's won her first case already," Rogers explained, "without even passing the bar!"

  Bill Jory slapped her on the back so hard it stung. But it also felt wonderful, like an official acceptance of her presence.

  "The best part, though," Rogers continued, "is that Heath Sloate was on the other side! That snake has been slithering around this town too long. He needed to get stepped on."

  Kit remembered the look in Sloate's eyes. He did not like getting stepped on one bit. That made two times she had gotten the upper hand on him. The thought of him exacting retribution made her shiver.

  "This calls for a celebration," Rogers announced, standing and grabbing his coat. "We're closing the office and having a dinner party. Rose—" he turned to his secretary. "See if you can get young Barrymore. I think these two should meet."

  "But . . . wait . . ." Kit stared at Rogers in disbelief. She didn't have the money for dinner parties. She stood up, straightening her hat as she got to her feet. "I can hardly afford—"

  "Nonsense!" Rogers bellowed. "I'm buying. You can't afford not to. This is a monumental moment. One I intend to savor. I'll not take no for an answer."

  Kit caught his enthusiasm and smiled. "Very well. You're the one with the purse."

  They ended up at The Imperial, apparently the place to be seen. The maître d' knew Rogers and Bill Jory and had a large table waiting for them. A string quartet played softly as couples took turns dancing around a hardwood floor. They were also joined by Luther Brown, another Rogers assistant, lean and smart. The only one missing was the young actor Rogers had referred to. Kit wondered why an actor would be part of this circle.

  Rogers ordered champagne and when it came, poured drinks all around. When he proposed a toast, Kit lifted only her water glass.

  "What," Rogers said. "No wine?"

  "No," Kit said.

  "Ever?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "Not even champagne? Why not?"

  "My father was killed by a drunkard," Kit said.

  The last comment seemed to cause a strange reaction in everyone, Kit noticed. Rogers seemed embarrassed, the others possessed of some hidden knowledge. The silence was uncomfortable until Rogers looked up and said, "Ah!"

  Kit looked up, too, and inhaled with a quick burst. Standing in front of her was the most incredibly handsome man she had ever seen—a perfectly chiseled face rounded out by dancing brown eyes that seemed to hold both mischief and merriment. Dressed in evening garb, his broad shoulders and chest tapered downward in a faultless V shape. Kit suddenly felt underdressed.

  "Greetings!" the man said with a theatrical trill. "I trust I'm not late."

  "Not at all. We've only popped the cork on the first bottle," Rogers said. "May I present to you Miss Kathleen Shannon, new to my office? Miss Shannon, John Barrymore."

  Barrymore's e
yes sparkled as he bowed and extended his hand. "Jack to my friends," he said. His handshake generated something like a current of electricity up Kit's arm. She felt such a flush in her face that she wished she could crawl under the table.

  As Barrymore pulled up a chair, Rogers said, "Jack is making his West Coast debut as Mercutio down at the Morosco. But you'll find him in the courtroom much of the time."

  "Earl Rogers is the greatest actor of them all," Barrymore announced. "I watch him to learn." He pounded the table twice. "A drink!"

  Rogers poured Barrymore a glass of champagne. As the glass filled, Barrymore looked at Kit. His gaze was mesmerizing. "May I ask what a fair young flower is doing planted in the arid climes of a criminal law enterprise?"

  His voice was so magnificent! It flowed like honey. "I . . ." Kit stammered, "I'm hoping to practice law."

  Rogers beamed. "Hope nothing! Won her first case already."

  John Barrymore said, "A maiden among scoundrels! This is the stuff of drama." He tossed back his head and downed the entire glass of champagne. "More!"

  Rogers poured another glass for Barrymore and for himself. It was a pattern that would repeat over the course of the next hour, as three bottles of champagne came to the table and disappeared. It was a strange, almost otherworldly experience. Kit continued, sipping only water in the midst of an increasingly boisterous group of hard-drinking men.

  Barrymore and Rogers soon began reciting Shakespeare to each other. Amazingly, to Kit at least, Rogers held his own. She thought if she were ever in need of a lawyer, either one of these men would do!

  Barrymore stood, walked around the table, and offered his hand to Kit. As if hypnotized, she took it. As he helped her up from the chair he said, "This dance is mine."

  Panic, like a jungle cat, leaped into her body. She had no idea how to dance. That was something the sisters of the Catholic church did not have high on their list of items to teach! And now she was walking toward a dance floor swirling with finely dressed and ever-so-graceful couples with an impossibly handsome and charming man.

  She looked heavenward. Don't let me step on his feet! Oh, please, not that!

  Barrymore noticed her hesitation as he pulled out a handkerchief before putting his hand on her back. "There is the slightest hint in your expression that suggests to me disdain. But surely not. Surely I cannot have put you off already." He smiled devilishly and tightened his hold on Kit's hand.

  Her inadequacy on the dance floor was the last thing she had hoped to discuss. Still, the truth might well be her salvation. Perhaps he would quietly lead her back to the table before she could make a fool of herself.

  "I can't dance." She admitted the fact softly, almost as if it were something to be ashamed of.

  Barrymore studied her for a moment as if ascertaining the truth in her words, then shrugged. "Then we shall walk gracefully to the music."

  Kit smiled in spite of her fears. "I can probably manage walking."

  "Then let us be about our business." They began, Barrymore proving to be a gentle and patient teacher. He guided her with his arms and smiled—what a smile!—to comfort her unease.

  For a few moments Kit thought she was in a dream. Back in New York, scrubbing floors to earn her keep and studying law the rest of the time, she never envisioned herself in a setting like this, dancing of all things. And certainly not with the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

  I have to stop thinking that! Get hold of your senses, Kit Shannon!

  "You dance like an angel," Barrymore said softly.

  "You lie like a devil," Kit rejoined. At which Barrymore laughed heartily. If he was not truly charmed by her, he was a great actor indeed.

  For several more minutes they danced, Kit ever aware of her partner's toes. Yet she began to feel more and more free, perhaps finding opportunity to let go of all the things that had seemingly gone wrong since she'd arrived—Aunt Freddy, Heath Sloate, the police. Let all that go, at least for this night.

  She took a more exuberant step in response to the swelling music—and caught the hem of her dress. Next thing she knew she was hitting the hardwood floor, face reddening with the awful realization that she was surrounded by aghast patrons.

  "Will you look at that!" one woman whispered indignantly. "No doubt she is drunk."

  Kit was instantly reminded of her father's teaching from the Bible. What was that about living a life above reproach? Dazed momentarily, but wishing the floor would open up and consume her, she felt two people lifting her, one on each side. One was surely Barrymore, but who was the other?

  Once on her feet she saw it was Ted Fox. "Hello, Miss Shannon," he said.

  Kit saw Barrymore's right eyebrow lift. "A friend of yours?" he said.

  "Y-Yes," Kit stammered. "Mr. Ted Fox, Mr. John Barrymore."

  "How do you do?" Ted said.

  "Very well," replied Barrymore, "especially with so charming a partner." Then, in a louder voice so all around them could hear, he said, "My dearest Miss Shannon, I cannot tell you how sorry I am for tripping you. You must forgive me. My heart will be sorrowed, nay, broken in two, should you withhold your forgiveness."

  That was when Kit heard a hard voice behind her say, "Well . . ."

  It was Elinor Wynn, holding a fan almost like a weapon, her face as hard as the floor. "I certainly didn't expect to see you here," she said to Kit.

  Kit felt her cheeks grow hotter still. She wasn't sure how to respond, so said nothing. But John Barrymore did. "That, madam, is an uncouth thing to say."

  Elinor Wynn looked like she'd been slapped. Kit, in spite of herself, couldn't help feeling pleased. And she thought, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a slight smile from Ted Fox.

  Barrymore stood there, his eyebrow raised even higher, his body teetering slightly. Elinor Wynn gave him a quick, dismissive look. "You, sir, are drunk," she said.

  "All right, that's enough," Ted said, stepping closer to Barrymore. Dutifully, if unwillingly, rescuing his lady, Kit thought.

  "Let's forget the whole thing," Barrymore said grandly. "Come to our table and we'll order more champagne."

  "No," Elinor said. "I'd like to have a word with Miss Shannon."

  "Come on, Sport," Ted said to Barrymore, taking his arm and leading him away. Indeed, it looked to Kit as if Barrymore might stumble without the help.

  Elinor Wynn swept off the dance floor, and Kit followed. When they reached the women's lounge, Elinor turned around and looked at Kit with obvious displeasure, though Kit thought she sensed something else at work. Fear, perhaps, as if Kit's presence in the city was somehow threatening to Elinor Wynn.

  "I know what you did," Elinor said.

  Kit shook her head. "I don't know what you're referring to."

  "Don't play dumb with me."

  "I assure you, I'm not."

  "I believe you are," said Elinor. "But if we must play games, then I'll tell you that I am referring to my fiancé's and your little tryst the other day."

  "Tryst? It was nothing of the kind."

  "I really don't care to discuss what kind it was. Ted can be a little headstrong, even to the point of doing terribly unsound things."

  "Like taking me for a ride in his buggy?" Kit said, her anger attempting to claw its way into her voice.

  "Exactly. I want you to know it won't happen again."

  Was that because Ted had said so, or because Elinor was threatening her? Kit studied her face and saw two things there. First, an impetuous will to have her own way. Elinor Wynn was from the privileged class and not used to being defied. But there was also a vulnerability there, a certain weakness that came from the same social privileges. Elinor Wynn, Kit was sure, had never had to fight too hard or suffer too dreadfully. In a pinch, with enough force against her, she would probably be as delicate and resistant as the powder on her face.

  But Kit was not going to fight Elinor Wynn. There was no need. Ted Fox, as attractive as he was, was pledged to her, and Kit would respect that.

 
Kit said, "You have no need to—"

  "You don't have to tell me my needs. I am telling you that if you even hint at showing your face around Ted, I shall see to it you are made miserable. And don't doubt that I can do it."

  No doubt at all, thought Kit. This was a woman who would go through life making many people miserable. She felt sorry for Ted. His would be a tough road.

  Kit said, "I understand."

  "I knew you would," said Elinor.

  Kit nodded, turned, and walked out of the lounge, her heart throwing punches against her chest.

  Ted Fox approached her immediately. "Been talking to El?"

  "She's in there," Kit said.

  "What did she say to you?"

  "She'll tell you, I'm sure." Kit took a step, but Ted put his hands on her shoulders.

  "I want you to tell me," he said.

  "Ted!" It was Elinor, appearing like a ghost at the mouth of a cave.

  "What is this all about?" Ted demanded.

  "Not here," rebuked Elinor.

  "I want to know."

  "Not here," Elinor said again in a tone that suggested she would brook no disagreement.

  Ted looked into Kit's face for a moment, and she saw there a deep, penetrating darkness. And danger. But also a pleading, something calling to her.

  Elinor grabbed Ted by the arm and led him away. He gave Kit a glance, just as he had at the party where they had first met. But this time his expression resembled that of a lost child—no, more than that. A lost soul.

  Kit had only a vague recollection of getting back to the table where Rogers, Barrymore, and the others were well into their drinks. Feeling out of place, Kit made her good-byes. Barrymore tried to charm her into staying, but she was no longer in any mood for celebration. She felt rootless and abandoned, as if she hadn't a friend in the world—as if Los Angeles had become an abyss of despair instead of a city of hope.

  Rogers insisted on paying for her cab home, and for once, Kit didn't argue about it. She had no desire to walk the streets alone. Lost in her thoughts, Kit wondered if she should have stood up more to Elinor Wynn. The woman was impossibly haughty and needed to be taken down a few pegs. But, on the other hand, she had reason to be upset with Kit. Kit had gone out with Ted, unchaperoned. It didn't look good. No doubt, if Ted had have been engaged to Kit instead of Elinor, Kit wouldn't have liked his doing such a thing with that icy but beautiful woman.